had written to everyone, informing them that Helena had been told the truth of her past.
“You are right,” said Miss Tallwood. “It is him. And you are his publisher, are you not, Lady Hastings?”
Helena kept her voice neutral and her answer short. “Yes.”
Mrs. Damien waved at Mr. Martin. “Hullo, Mr. Martin!”
At the sound of his name, Mr. Martin glanced in their direction and immediately turned red. He looked about, as if searching for a place to hide. But Mrs. Damien would countenance no such unsociable urges and called out to him again: “Over here, Mr. Martin.”
Now he had no choice but to approach. Helena, with her face carefully set, presented him to Venetia’s husband, whom he had yet to meet. Mr. Martin stammered through the introductions. She was embarrassed for him and mortified for herself, feeling ever more incredulous that she’d had anything to do with this man beyond a greeting and a handshake.
She stole a peek at David. He looked tense, but gave her a small lift of the chin as reassurance. The past was the past, said his gesture; no point worrying about what could not be changed.
“Are you going home, Mr. Martin?” asked Miss Tallwood, oblivious to the undercurrents.
Mr. Martin wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I—I am going to call on my mother.”
“I heard she’d taken ill earlier in the Season,” said Millie kindly. “But I understand she has since completely recovered.”
“Unfortunately the recovery was not as complete as we would have liked,” replied Mr. Martin, looking distraught. “And now this new bout of fever has her physicians worried.”
Helena felt an involuntary swell of sympathy for him. He still remembered everything; her coolness to him must be terribly uncomfortable, given how diligently she’d pursued him. And now his mother was so ill he worried for her life….
“I hope Mrs. Martin will make a speedy recovery,” she said. “And that you will have her company for many years to come.”
Everyone else also offered their good wishes for Mrs. Martin. Mr. Martin mumbled his gratitude, bowed, and left.
Helena exhaled in relief at his retreating back. She did not blame him for anything—it was all too evident that she must have been the one to instigate their affair and to pressure him to agree to her demands. All the same, she was glad that, with the Season ending, she would not run into him again for months upon months.
“Look at the hour,” she said brightly. “It’s almost time for us to board, Lord Hastings. Shall we say our good-byes?”
Hastings’s heart was still beating fast when he and Helena settled themselves in his private rail coach. Out of view of those still on the platform, her gloved hand took hold of his.
With her free hand she waved at her family, Miss Tallwood, and Mrs. Damien. “I am no longer thinking of him and neither should you.”
His was a perilous happiness, but moments like this made all the bouts of fearful despair worthwhile. He joined her in the waving. “I wasn’t thinking of him, but of us.”
A steam whistle blew shrilly, indicating the train’s imminent departure. On the platform, a rail guard motioned the crowd to move back. She kept on waving. “You weren’t speaking to Fitz about us, were you?”
“Goodness, no, at least not in the manner you are implying. We were talking about Mrs. Englewood, his old sweetheart.”
“A sweetheart before he married Millie?”
He looked at her, surprised. “No one has mentioned her to you yet? Fitz had to give her up when he needed to marry an heiress.”
She shook her head. “No. Fitz and Millie always speak of their life together as if they’d been in a perfect state of harmony and happiness since the day they first married. I would never have guessed that there was someone else.”
“There was. Mrs. Englewood came back from India during the Season—this Season—and she and Fitz were ready to set up their own household. He came to his senses only shortly before your accident.”
She blinked. “I can’t imagine it.”
“Neither can I quite believe it now, but that was what happened.”
The train began to move, the rumble of its wheels gaining volume and depth. They waved one last time at everyone on the platform. A knot of travelers, recently detrained and in a hurry to leave the rail station, trudged by. One woman turned her head rather sharply to look in Venetia’s direction, catching Hastings’s attention.
Mrs. Andrew Martin. Martin was somewhere in the same station, catching a train, but his wife had clearly